fast that Mac could only pick up snippets of information.
Mac cut into the din. ‘General, please shut down the media fi rst.
I mean, before you bring the bomb teams on board. These guys have family being held hostage.’
Hatfi eld couldn’t disguise his relief. He had roughly four hours to dismantle a nerve gas threat – and he had a tango-free environment in which to do it.
Hatfi eld had taken the information and done what good generals do. He’d made a decision.
Paul came down from the bridge having asked Wylie to open the gangway doors. Mac didn’t want to go up there and look at those blokes after he’d promised them the kids and wife would be fi ne.
Paul sat, gave Mac a look. Mac knew what he wanted. ‘What?’
‘What?’ said Paul, cocking an eyebrow.
Paul wanted to rescue the hostages, Mac just knew it.
‘Fuck’s sake, mate, I’m not Rambo,’ said Mac, looking away. He was so tired.
Paul laughed. ‘Come on, Tiger. Let’s give it one last roll. See if we can’t bag these cunts.’
Outside Mac saw the gangways being dragged by tractors to the side of Golden Serpent. SWAT teams, fi re fi ghters and lots of US Army were milling on the dock clad in either white, yellow or green bio-hazard suits. There were helos in the air, the clanking sound of Black Hawks, the throb of Apaches.
‘Okay,’ said Mac. ‘So we have one Moro terrorist and one CIA black sheep. They have a fi ve-hour head start. Where do you want to begin?’
‘Back on Brani you told me you might have an idea about that,’ said Paul.
Mac thought about it. ‘We’ll need Weenie. We’ll need a helo.’
Paul slapped Mac on the shoulder. ‘That’s more like it.’
Mac rose, almost lost his balance.
Mac slipped up to the bridge to have a word before the Yanks and Singaporeans came aboard and threw everyone into a three-day debrief.
He leaned in the door, silently beckoned to Wylie.
Wylie saw it in Mac’s eyes immediately. ‘We’re still on air, aren’t we?’
‘Mate, as soon as I told them there was a timeline on this thing, they moved in. Couldn’t stop it,’ said Mac. ‘I’m sorry.’
Wylie clenched his fi st, looked at the fl oor. ‘Fuck it! You promised us. You both promised us. We’ve done everything your way.’ His bottom lip trembled.
‘We’re going after them now,’ said Mac. ‘No promises, but we’re going to try.’
‘Really?’
Mac nodded. ‘I’ll need photos of Jeremy’s kids and your wife.
Need names, nicknames, cell phone numbers. Anything that could help us.’
Wylie went into the bridge, came back with Jeremy. They emptied their wallets of pictures. Jeremy had two dark-haired daughters, about fi ve and seven.
‘The younger one’s Rachel,’ said Jeremy. ‘The older one’s Fiona, but she answers to Feef.’
Mac wrote it on the back of the pic. Pulled out Wylie’s wife: slim, attractive, well dressed. A sort of 1980s blonde hairstyle with big Farrah fl icks down the side.
‘Her name’s Karen. She’s amazingly calm in a crisis. She’ll do what you ask her,’ said Wylie.
Mac saw Jeremy’s hands going to his face, freaking out. Ignoring it, he brought it back to Wylie.
‘Tell me more about what they were doing. They drop any hints about where they were going?’
‘They didn’t kill everyone. They took Irvine, one of my offi cers.
Someone belted him in the face and one of the guys in charge – the Filipino – said something like, “Don’t damage the goods, I don’t want him useless for the next leg.” I thought it was a strange thing to say
– the next leg – like it was a tour or something.’
‘Irvine?’ asked Mac.
‘Yes, Peter Irvine. Canadian. Highly experienced in these waters.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Not that I can recall.’
‘How did they leave the ship?’
‘By tender. Rigid infl atable thing. Might have been from Brani Terminal.’
‘Which way did they go?’
Wylie pointed over the port side, across the channel to Brani Island.
Mac nodded. ‘Three of them, huh?’
Jeremy leapt in. ‘And the woman helming the tender makes four.’
‘Sorry?’ said Mac.
‘The woman,’ said Jeremy. ‘I went out on the deck when they left, had a look. There was a blonde woman driving the tender.’
Mac’s ears fi lled with blood, heart pumping behind his eyeballs.
‘Woman?’
‘Yeah. Mid thirties, very attractive professional type. Couldn’t work out what she was doing with these scum.’
‘How was she dressed, mate?’
‘Jeans and a shirt. Pale-blue polo shirt thing.’
Jeremy moved closer, as if something had occurred to him.
‘Umm.’
‘What else, mate? Could be important,’ said Mac.
‘Nothing really. It’s nothing.’
‘Come on.’
‘Well, she looked up and saw me watching.’
‘Yes?’
‘And didn’t tell the blokes.’
CHAPTER 39
Mac and Paul came off the gangway, onto the quay, holding newspapers over their faces to stop any unfriendlies identifying them on TV. Don and his sidekick from the Chinook swooped on them and another pair of men in bio-hazards walked past them towards Wylie and Jeremy.
They made straight for Hatfi eld’s Chinook and sat in the aft freight area. Hatfi eld’s voice boomed clearly through the bulkhead.
Don thanked Mac and Paul for the work, and Paul asked if he could use the Chinook’s radio-telephone. He called Weenie and requested the Gazelle.
Mac briefed Don. ‘Mate, you can get this to your guys: the container’s at twelve eleven eight six. It’s about halfway between deckhouse and bow, on our side – starboard – and it’s high up. The eighty-six position is two or three from the top of the stack.’
Don touched his throat mic. Relayed the information exactly.
‘Was anyone exposed?’ asked Don.
Mac shook his head. ‘Not that we know of.’
‘Did these guys remove any of the VX?’
‘Couldn’t tell you, mate,’ said Mac.
Don mulled it over. ‘Where are Garrison and Sabaya now?’
‘We’ve got an idea. Might need some of your special forces,’ said Paul.
Don looked sideways at Paul. Clocked the muscles, the broken nose, the steady eyes. Looked back at Mac. ‘Worked with Sawtell’s unit before?’
Mac nodded. ‘Good outfi t.’
‘They’re not needed here. But we’d like a chat with the thieves.
